


Precognition

by jcrowquill



Category: Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcrowquill/pseuds/jcrowquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fight at the stag wasn't the whole reason why John was in rough shape at his wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precognition

**Author's Note:**

> This fits tidily into the movie timeline between the brawl at the gentleman's club and the arrival at the chapel. Originally posted on livejournal (jcrowquill.livejournal.com) on 12/28/11. Thank you to jim_in_westwood (jiminwestwood.tumblr.com) for beta.

At some point over the last fifteen minutes, Watson has sobered slightly and has realized that the drive to the country is quite long, particularly at three in the morning; he is actually quite bored. He opened a new bottle of wine a few minutes ago, but he dislikes drinking alone so he is just toying with the bottle until I choose to join him. At present, he has his lips resting against the mouth of the bottle and occasionally he runs his tongue around the glass rim as though he will suddenly, mosquito-like, be able to drink without having to tilt the bottle back. Suddenly he remembers himself and how suggestive his distracted - and I hardly need add distracting - idling may seem, and he instead blows across the opening of the mostly-full bottle like a flautist, rewarding us both with a deep reverberating note.

He wants to talk because he has a lot to say and feels it all important. Most of it isn't. He maintains his silence only because he is weighing the importance of each potential statement and ordering them in his thoughts. I will be making love to him in approximately ten minutes and this is how it will happen.

He will hold the bottle out to me as a peace offering and comment that it wasn't perhaps the very worst stag in history. I will of course accept the bottle and his indirect apology, before I lift the bottle, the glass still warm from his lips, to take a healthy swallow. Then I will comment that it was only half-bad, really, and that the half that was bad was him and his lackluster fisticuffs.

He'll laugh and take the bottle back, now permitted by his own internal etiquette to take his own first sip. He will be silent again before finally admitting rather awkwardly that he will miss our adventures. I will comment that he is the one who is always saying that whatever we're doing will be our last whatever it is, and he will counter that I am the one who referred to this as our last case. I will concede the truth of the statement, though I won’t tell him that I feel this will be my last case rather than just "ours." I can let him think that I mean that it is due to my feelings about his upcoming nuptials, and it will rather be my advantage to do so.

He will bluster a little bit self- righteously then tell me that his wedding Mary isn't the end of the world or of our friendship. I know that it isn't and won't be; in fact it will be little different than it is now with his coming and going from Baker Street as he pleases, unleashing Gladstone and releasing the dog into the flat as though they both live there still. I don't doubt his sincerity in wanting to start a family with Mary, but I similarly have no doubts about his consuming love for me.

None of this is really worth saying, but he will not be satisfied by my simply acknowledging that I know. More insistently he will tell me that it doesn't change anything. I will ask him rhetorically how change doesn’t change anything, and he will become slightly more sullen. He will petulantly lecture me about man's responsibilities and the lifecycle of the British bachelor. I will counter by telling him that he will stagnate, and he will tell me that I will never give him opportunity. That will be the turning point of what will, by this point, be a rather heated argument.

There will be a few moments silence, then he will reach for my hand and quietly tell me that he loves me. His voice will be soft but not apologetic. I will have a moment of wanting to say something deeply wounded and wounding, and I will come very close to doing so. I will instead turn my hand in his to hold it tighter then pull the car off to the side of the small dirt road and propose that we drink.

We will each take several long swallows from the open bottle, then I will kiss him. He won't bother to protest or feign surprise but will instead lean over in the seat to put his arms around me. It will be quite a good kiss due to Watson's talent and experience. "Three continents John Watson", more like five, seven, or twenty-six given his facile tongue and ready hands. We will fumble somewhat desperately at our already disheveled clothes, groping and caressing, and he will pull away, quite pink in the cheeks even by moonlight, then tell me that he won't make love to me in the front seat of a carriage, horseless or not. I'll laugh and propose the ground.

Then we will be wrestling about in the grass, kissing one another while loosening and unbuttoning one another's battle-torn clothing. When I finally reach skin, he will moan. I will caress his chest as I kiss him, then I will lightly bite his tongue as I pull away to slide my body down his front.

The buttons on the front of his trousers will only give me a moment's pause, then I'll have them down about his knees. He may comment on the slightly unpleasant sensation of the damp grass against his backside, but he won't finish the complaint because I will at that point take his cock into my mouth. His back will arch attractively and he will nearly gag me, but I will have anticipated him by pressing his hips back flat to the ground as I take him in deeply.

He will be fumbling in the pockets of my discarded jacket, looking for the tin of oil he knows I have. Several times he'll throw his head back, temporarily abandoning his quest, before making a triumphant sound that will taper out into a throaty moan. He will push the tin into my hand that is on his hip and I will obligingly pause in my ministrations to oil the first two fingers of my right hand.

His moan when I push a finger into him will be loud and remind him that we are out in the open, but he will reassure himself quickly that no one else would be on the road at this hour. Then he will stop thinking and only feel as I thrust into him first with one finger, then two. I will ease up on him with my tongue and will instead press kisses into the crease of his thigh. He will want me to take him into my mouth again but won't ask. I will absently consider having him with the neck of one of our unopened bottles of wine, imagining the flared glass disappearing smoothly into him but will decide against it knowing we'll want to drink that after.

Instead, a minute or two later he'll impatiently moan (though it will have a delightful, petulantly whiney quality) that he's more than ready and furthermore demand that I have him this instant.

I will oblige him after slicking my own cock. I will scarcely give him a chance to inhale between the last movement of my fingers and the first thrust of my cock. Seated deep within him, we'll pause to savor the closeness, the way our bodies fit together and the seamless press of our bodies from hip to shoulder. It will be a glorious second but will end when my John demands my mouth on his. His body will be tight and welcoming; every push and pull will draw hoarse moans from both of us. The animal nature of intercourse has always seemed distasteful and somewhat jarring to me, but with John the beauty of his face from four centimeters away and the aching sincerity of his pleasure-strained voice keep me addicted. There is nothing I wouldn't do to keep him.

I will lift his knee and hook it over my shoulder, giving me access to a deeper angle that will make him cry out my name in a mixture of surprise and desire. The effect will be satisfying and effective.

He will move my hand from its bracing position on his hip to his cock. John is demanding and has not a single modicum of shyness concerning his desires. I will of course acquiesce and slide my still-slicked hand on his eager length. He will become more desperate as he pushes himself back onto me, then he will thrust his pelvis forward into my hand. At this point he will begin talking – veering rather wildly from passionate insults to endearments to utter nonsense. He will want to finish and find himself quite frustrated, teetering on the cusp.

I will shift my hips slightly to get that last bit of friction, becoming just the slightest bit rough. I will want him to feel this tomorrow in his tired legs. I will want him to feel the slight pull in the muscles of his inner thighs on every step as he walks up the aisle to meet her. I want his slightly sore backside to remind him of me as he sits in the train to Bristol. I want him to remember that she can never do this to him. When their eyes meet, I want her to know.

“Oh God, Holmes,” he will half- yell as he comes, his muscles tightening almost painfully around me and making me feel as though I will join him right then. It will take a moment longer, but I will spill my seed into him and know with some satisfaction that he will still be slick with me tomorrow. It will be impossible for him not to smell me on his skin as he says his vows.

We will stay close for some time, and then he will moan at the loss of me as I withdraw from him. We will be sweaty and sticky, but neither of us will feel melancholy or afraid. He will sweetly lay his head on my shoulder for a moment then sit up to retrieve his trousers then set mine to rights.

He will reach again for the wine and offer it to me. At that point we will begin drinking in earnest. I will tell him that he had best be careful not to moan my name on his honeymoon; John will reply that if Mary is capable of doing to him what I just did, he will be moaning Mary's name in shock more than anything else. He will demonstrate: "Mary....?!" with widened eyes. I will snort and finish the bottle.

Beside me in the automobile, John sighs weightily and comments, "I would have liked a normal stag, Holmes."

Wait for it, I remind myself.

He continues, holding the bottle of wine over to me.

"Though really, I'm sure that this is far from the worst stag in history."

I take it from him with a low laugh.

"It was only half bad, really...."


End file.
